Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  Dying in the snow would be better than this.

  The North Pole is home, he’s sure of it. And if he thinks hard enough, he can remember the snow and weather that felt so wonderful, so clean.

  And elven. He remembers elven. That’s another thing he remembers. At first it was just a word, but then he realized it’s what the short, fat people call themselves, the ones that live on the North Pole. Unfortunately, he can’t remember any of them with green hair, so that’s a little confusing.

  Confusion, though, has become his daily life.

  “Got it.” Something very sticky and long tears. “Time for the green goblin to shut his mouth.”

  They’re still across the room, shuffling through junk. An argument breaks out in hushed tones. Someone is worried that Willie is going to kick them all to the curb. It quiets down.

  “I still can’t see what I’m doing,” Sheldon says.

  “You don’t need to see,” Pickett says. “Just put a piece of tape over his mouth, he breathes through his nose, and we get some sleep.”

  Jack doesn’t want his mouth taped shut. It’ll just seal the cold inside, he thinks. He remembers a time when someone locked him in a closet and wouldn’t let him out. He thought he was going to suffocate. There was a song he used to sing, something that helped him feel better when he felt helpless.

  But he can’t remember it.

  “I got something.” A locker door slams shut.

  A bright spot of light briefly flashes over Jack. For a second, it feels hot.

  Tatatatatatat…

  “Hold this.” Another long, sticky tear. “Aim the light on his face.”

  Jack smells them get closer. The spot of light hits him in the face.

  “What about those whiskers?” Sheldon asks.

  “What about them?” Pickett says.

  “Tape’s going to rip them out.”

  “Don’t care.”

  The spotlight’s on Jack. This time, it doesn’t leave.

  Tatatat—

  Silence.

  The warmth seeps through each hair follicle just like it did when he’s in the sunlight. Warmth spreads into his skin, deep into his tissues, reaching for his bones, thawing his brain.

  “You see that?” Sheldon says.

  “Yeah. Take that off him.”

  The light goes away. Tatatatatatat…

  The light returns.

  Back and forth they experiment. A third grader would’ve figured it out before them.

  “He ain’t chattering when the light’s on him,” Sheldon finally says.

  “Yeah.”

  Maybe they’re thinking it’s better this way. Taping a man’s mouth shut could put them on the street. But a light?

  Three long strips of tape are pulled off the roll. The light jiggles but finally stays in place. A smile creeps across Jack’s face, curling his lips. He’s warm again.

  The stink fades.

  Snoring resumes in the bunkroom. Jack doesn’t sleep, but he rests easy. He remembers something.

  He remembers the song he used to sing when he felt helpless, the song that filled him with hope and yummy feelings.

  Silent Night…

  J A C K

  December 4

  Thursday

  Sura braids the twining grapevine with long blades of lemongrass and strands of white lights. She accents the decoration with magnolia leaves and holly berries and then stands back, tapping her lower lip. That’s what May does when she decorates.

  “I think!” May would say when Sura stared at her. Then May would laugh. Then she would hug her.

  There’s laughter down the hallway, but it’s not the same as May’s laughter. This has an edge that cuts. High school seniors lean against a cinderblock wall. The girls cover their mouths.

  Sura dumps out a bucket of white camellia blooms. She plucked them from the shrub growing in a dark corner behind the school where no one would appreciate them. They aren’t Seafoam camellias, but they’re white.

  And perfect.

  “Oh, my!” Ms. Wesley steps out of the gymnasium. “That is incredible, Sura! You did this? All by yourself?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s absolutely wonderful.” Ms. Wesley walks beside the twisted decoration, lights blinking in the depths of festive wrappings like little fairies. “I never knew you had such talents.”

  Sura blushes, looking away.

  “I think we can hang it.” Ms. Wesley carefully lifts it, lights reflecting off her glasses. “Take the other end.”

  They are barely tall enough to reach over the doorway, but they manage to set it on the hooks the janitor set in the wall. A few tucks here, an extra pine cone there and—

  “Wonderful.” Ms. Wesley folds her hands on her chest. Only a teacher would appreciate a Christmas adornment like that. “Can you stay after school? We could use your talents for the main stage.”

  “I can’t, Ms. Wesley. I have to work. Sorry.”

  Ms. Wesley puts her arm around her. She’d gotten a lot of those hugs from teachers. They stopped saying “sorry about your mother” and resorted to half-hugs.

  “What about last period? I could get you out.”

  “I need to study.”

  “Right. And what kind of teacher would I be if I interrupted your studies?”

  Sura sort of smiles. Sort of laughs. Sort of completely hates herself for glancing down the hallway to see if the seniors are watching because Ms. Wesley notices. “Are you going to the senior holiday gala next week?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And why not?”

  Sura doesn’t want to say she has to work because that would be a lie, but she also doesn’t want to tell the truth. She’d been dreaming about Joe asking her. He’d pick her up on a loud motorcycle and all the girls would swoon and the boys would tremble in fear. She doesn’t know where he’d get the bike or why the boys would be afraid of him, but she doesn’t want to ruin the fantasy with questions.

  And she can’t tell Ms. Wesley because someone might hear and she’d heard enough laughter.

  “You can ask someone, you know.” Ms. Wesley sorts through the other buckets. “You don’t have to wait around for a boy to ask.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  Sura decides to help find a place for the remaining magnolia leaves, to give her hands something to do. Ms. Wesley begins humming a Christmas tune. It eventually morphs into a lighthearted falsetto effort that only a teacher would do without crippling embarrassment.

  The bell rings.

  “I have to go to the library, Ms. Wesley.”

  “Are you going to be volunteering this Sunday?”

  “At the horse stables? Of course.”

  “The children will be there at 2:00.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sura slings her book bag over her shoulder. Ms. Wesley’s song follows her down the hall.

  Bobby James pretends to read a history textbook. No high school student has actually read a history textbook. It’s a cover for his phone. Sura pushes a cart past him, the last of the books to be shelved. It’s not like the old days, her teachers tell her. That’s when libraries were full of real books, not ones on the computer.

  Technology is ruining us.

  Of course, they drive their car home instead of a horse and buggy. So much for that argument.

  Sura finishes the last one with five minutes left. Bobby James has his eyes closed. She wishes she could waste time like that.

  “You don’t hang out,” her mom would always say. “You invest your time. Life is short. And if you think the point of living is to be happy, you’re mistaken. Serve life and happiness will find you.” Then she’d get that look of wisdom and say, “Happiness cannot be grasped any more than the wind.”

  Sometimes Sura wishes her mom hadn’t been so weird. Maybe Sura wouldn’t be so weird.

  She goes to the back corner and sits at a secluded desk, where booger is carved into t
he surface. She pulls her phone out. Guilt and fear coil around her. She ignores them, sliding her finger across the glass.

  She navigates to the school’s website and finds the library database. There’s a link to the tri-county yearbook database the librarian sometimes uses to update student information. It’s not available to the public, but if you’re a library assistant, you probably have a password.

  Sura logs on.

  A jolt of excitement tingles in her arms. She searches for Joe…

  Wait. What’s his last name?

  There’s going to be like a thousand Joes in the database. It’ll be Monday by the time she finds him, assuming Joseph is his first name and not his middle. Assuming his name is Joseph.

  She types a different first name.

  The icon rotates, grinding through an eternity of Charleston area students, past and present. Two hits. The first one is current, a senior at a nearby high school. She hits the link. A picture loads and the twin snakes of guilt and fear melt like sweet sugar.

  Jonah.

  She’s only met him the one time, but she’s been branded with his slight smile. He’s cute by anyone’s standards, but it’s not just that. She gravitates toward him. Maybe she’s delusional, but she believes he gravitates towards her, too.

  He’s not in sports or student cabinet. No clubs except one, the American Red Cross club. He’s a nerd, just like me. A hot, sweetheart nerd.

  Strange thing, though. The photo was updated three weeks ago when he registered for class, like he just started at the high school. He must’ve been homeschooled.

  The bell rings.

  The hallway quickly clutters.

  Sura begins to put the phone away. Before she does—on a whim—she taps the other Jonah that appeared in her search. This Jonah went to school thirty years ago. A picture loads, this one slightly grainy.

  A strange sensation trickles across her skin, like magnetic ants racing over her, taking the good feelings away.

  It’s Joe.

  It’s not Joe, it’s his father, but he looks exactly like him. That’s Joe’s face. The hair is shorter, but the smile is the same. Eyes, the identical color.

  Lots of people look like their parents. Some of them look exactly like them. It shouldn’t seem so weird.

  Oddly enough, she remembers another bizarre thing her mom used to say. Wake up, Sura. Don’t sleep through the truth.

  Sura hustles out of the library. She can’t be late for work.

  J A C K

  December 7

  Sunday

  Maybe I’m a warmblood.

  Jack stares at the mirror. He doesn’t look like a warmblood, but they all look different—hair, skin, eyes, size, smell… all different. His insanely large feet are hard to explain, but he saw a girl with blue hair and metal rings in her eyebrow the other day, so maybe he’s like that.

  Maybe he’s just out there.

  He’s a freaky warmblood with delusions of elven that live on the North Pole. Maybe he just needs to find an equally hairy, equally repulsive wife and get a job loading something onto a thing, and get a house, have disgusting little kids.

  That would be easier than getting to the North Pole.

  Jack’s nostrils flare. He sniffs like a dog. His mouth floods with saliva. Someone is bringing in groceries. He’s still full of oatmeal, but he may as well eat mud. There is something new in the building.

  He creeps through the empty bunkroom, careful not to let one of the supervisors see him, which isn’t easy to do when you’re the shape of an overinflated beach ball. Jack leans against the wall and breathes deeply, picking out a hint of something scaly.

  And delicious.

  Jack plucks the last sardine from the can, its tail limp and slick. He dangles it over his mouth, caressing the gaping eye with the tip of his tongue before slurping it down like an overcooked noodle.

  There is a parade in the street. As far as Jack can tell, while mincing the tiny bones between his teeth, a parade is obnoxious music, ghastly costumes, and atrocious dancing. He pulls down the front of his white tank top to expose a shag of greenish hair that tingles in the light.

  First sardines. Now sunlight.

  Life is good.

  “Merry Christmas.” Willie comes out of nowhere.

  Jack chokes. “Huh, what?”

  “I said Merry Christmas, man.”

  “Okay.” Jack wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why?”

  “Man, you never give up, do you?”

  “No.” Jack has no idea what that means, but it’s probably true.

  “We picked up those cans of nasty little fish for you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been asking about herring, anchovies, and all sorts of disgusting food, so we got those for you. Thought you’d like them.”

  Jack licks his oily finger. “Okay. Cool.”

  “That ain’t going to cut it.”

  “Cut what?”

  “I want you to show some appreciation, man. You get a free bed, a free shower, free food, and free nasty fish.” Willie wrinkles his nose. “You can at least show a little gratitude.”

  Jack looks around. No one is watching. They’re all standing on the curb, watching trucks, tractors, and little kids that suck at dancing. No one is close enough to ask what Willie wants him to do.

  So Jack bows.

  Willie crosses his arms and looks away.

  Jack bows deeper. He drops to his knees. He jumps up, tap dances in place, his feet scuffing the concrete.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, Willie. This? Or this? Or what? I don’t know.”

  Willie grabs Jack’s arms before he pirouettes. Jack’s out of breath.

  “You just say thank you, that’s all.”

  “Thank you?”

  “That’s it, man. You say thank you.”

  Willie’s green eyes are soft, his ropey hair dangling over his brows. He gently squeezes Jack’s shoulders.

  “Thank you.”

  Willie lets go. Smiles.

  They go to the curb with the rest of the crowd and watch motorcycles putter past and high school bands march with tall, fuzzy hats and farting, metal instruments. It doesn’t make any sense. Just the other day there were cars racing down the road, now they’re dancing on it.

  Jack slurps the delightfully fish-scented oil and tosses the empty can on the grass. “What’s this?” he says.

  “Parade,” Sheldon says.

  “Yeah, but what is it? Some sort of talent show?”

  “You never heard of a parade?”

  “Yeah, dummy. That’s what I mean. Now tell me.”

  Another truck comes around the corner with another female with another glittery shirt, waving and smiling. It’s so obvious she’s not happy. Jack thinks about throwing the sardine can at her.

  Someone inside the truck throws a fistful of rocks wrapped in clear plastic. They skitter into the curb.

  “Parade, man.” Sheldon picks up one of the wrapped rocks. “You get candy.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Cause it’s Christmas, man,” Pickett shouts over the approaching band. “What’s your problem? Your mother didn’t love you?”

  “She didn’t love you.”

  Sheldon and Pickett laugh. Jack heard someone say that the other day and thought it was an insult. Must be a joke.

  Another truck heaves more candy at them. The shelter residents harvest it from the street. Maybe the candy is sardine flavored.

  “Give me one of those.” He puts out his hand.

  “Get it yourself, fatboy,” Pickett says.

  Jack doesn’t want to bend over. It’s not easy for him to bend. He stretches his foot onto the street, pinches a barrel-shaped piece between his toes, and snaps. The candy shoots straight up and he catches it.

  It takes a few attempts to unwrap the sticky, brown block, and once it hits his tongue, he’s pretty sure he just ate poison. He spits it like an air pistol and scrapes his tongue
.

  “You need to watch your back, little man.” Pickett’s face is darker than usual.

  “Why? Something on it?”

  “You spit that on me, man.” Pickett jerks out of Sheldon’s grip. “You’re lucky Willie is out here or I’d rip every one of those nasty green hairs out of your head, stomp you in the dirt.”

  Jack pulls the bottom of his shirt up to rub the taste off his lips. His gelatinous belly jiggles out. Several girls on a passing float point.

  “What makes you so important?” Jack asks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “All of you!” Jack’s face darkens. He notices the bare flesh on his palms looks bluish. “You think you’re the center of the universe? You think life revolves around you and your petty problems? That you’re entitled to get whatever you want?”

  Jack doesn’t know exactly what any of that means or where it’s coming from, but he doesn’t get in the way. He lets the words rise up from a distant memory of someone he used to be, maybe when he lived on the North Pole. Bitter hate fills his chest like a salty fist, the knuckles drumming his heart.

  “Let me tell you something, warmblood. You and all of your friends are just cogs in a machine. You’re just another ball of lint sticking to the world’s sleeve. One of these days, you and the rest of these ugly warmbloods will be just like candy on the street, waiting to be swept up.”

  Jack swats the candy from Pickett’s hand and grinds it under his heel until it’s powder and plastic.

  Pickett towers over him and his fist is about to follow. It’s not that he doesn’t try. Willie gets in the way and Sheldon pulls Pickett back. Spittle flies from his lips; foamy flecks of anger carry a rant strewn with cuss words. Everyone forgets about the parade until Pickett storms down the sidewalk, occasionally looking over his shoulder, still cussing.

  Jack waves at him.

  “You making friends?” Willie says.

  “Yeah. Whatever that means.”

  “Well, it ain’t that.”

  Jack crosses his arms over his belly; his shoulders slump. The hatred ebbs away and he can’t remember why he felt like that or even what he said. It came from somewhere deep, like he tapped a reservoir trapped under miles of bedrock. The anger came shooting out of his mouth like an oil well spilling black gunk.